Allan knew that, without assistance, Kate would have to limit her ambitions. She certainly wouldn’t be able to cultivate forty acres’ crops with no hands but her own. He kept silent, and waited patiently for her to disclose her plans for the season before her. It was Saturday dinner before she revealed them.
“Think I’ll plant four acres for trade,” she said between mouthfuls of beef stew, “and put asparagus on four more. Plenty of money in good asparagus. Won’t be worth a damn for at least two years, though.”
“Two years?” A gentle fluttering began in his stomach.
She nodded. “You have to invest the time if you want stuff that’s worth the money. The soil and the asparagus have to get used to one another.”
“So what will this year’s cash crops be?” he said.
“Scallions and rhubarb.”
“Hm?”
She grinned. “You expected corn? Why bother? The big guys grow enough corn to feed the whole world about five times.” She tore a chunk from her dinner roll, sopped up stew gravy with it, thrust it into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Small operators have to do specialty crops. I’m really good with rhubarb. You ever had a rhubarb pie?”
He shook his head.
“Then you haven’t lived. I promise you, nobody near here will be able to touch our rhubarb.” She nibbled at the roll. “The hard part will be selling the stuff. Are there any specialty markets around here we could approach?”
“A few. Feel like taking a drive tomorrow, making inquiries?”
She was silent for a moment. “Sure. So when’s Mass tomorrow?” she said.
The swerve hauled him up short. “I go to the seven-thirty. The church is on the other side of the city. You’re coming with me?”
She shrugged. “Of course. Why not?”
“Right.”
* * *
They drew more than a few stares in church. The seven-thirty Mass was populated by the most constant of congregations. Nearly all the attendees sat in exactly the same place every week. An unfamiliar face was sure to excite interest, and more than a little gossip. Especially since it was the face of a young woman, sitting by the side of a considerably older man who’d come to Mass alone for seven straight years.
Father Ray stopped them on the church steps.
“Do I have a new parishioner?”
Kate answered before Allan could compose a response. “For this season at least, Father.” She held out a hand, and the priest clasped it. “I’m Kate Morrell.”
“Welcome to Onteora parish, dear. I’m Father Raymond Altomare.” The priest looked an avalanche of questions at Allan, who did his best to maintain an expression of bland amiability.
“Father,” Kate said before the awkward silence could run too long, “would you know of any markets in the area that might take some specialty produce on consignment?”
The priest’s eyebrows rose. “Are you reviving Bellamy Farm?”
She nodded. “Maybe you’ll be calling it the Morrell Farm this time next year.”
Father Ray smiled. “Wait here.” He trotted off toward a knot of other congregants, animatedly exchanging words and gestures on the church’s front lawn, and returned moments later with a solid-looking man in a sport jacket and NFL-logo tie.
“Hello, I’m Jack Taliaferro. I run the local farmers’ market.” He held out a hand.
Kate shook the proffered hand but did not release it. Her voice dropped a full octave and became husky. “I’m Kate Morrell. Allan has hired me to turn his spread into a working farm again. We’ve put in several acres of champion-line scallions and rhubarb. Very high return per unit. But I’m only good at growing things. I’m hopeless at selling them. Do you think you might be able to help?” With that, she produced a smile of such dazzling power that Allan’s heart clenched in his chest.
Taliaferro’s mouth dropped open. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His free hand went to his collar and tugged it away from his throat.
“I think I might,” he croaked. “Give me a moment?” He reclaimed his hand with some reluctance and beckoned to another congregant. “Solly? Come do some business!”
Presently Kate was chatting, laughing, and backslapping with the two merchants as if they were friends of twenty years’ standing. A few minutes later, she shook hands with both again and returned to Allan.
Allan took Kate gently by the elbow and steered her back toward the car. “How did you do that?”
The smile she awarded him was 200-proof innocence. “Practice.”
* * *
They went on that way, day after day and week after week. Kate would rise at five, if not earlier, and set to her labors at once. Allan, half an hour or more behind her despite his best efforts, would cook for them, clean for them, and provide the relaxation of small talk at their meals together. At seven each evening she would put away her tools, shower off the grime of the day, and sit quietly before the television with him until weariness compelled her to sleep.